Joy

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Art of the Graphic Memoir: Tell Your Story, Change Your Life (2018)

  The book is giddy and exuberant but also reflective as older Fink learns to appreciate all that younger Fink went through. It’s magnificent fun and structured utterly unlike most memoirs. Jess by Jess LEARNING IS THE KEY In all cases, learning is paramount. Stories are almost always about learning. In Kampung Boy, the learning is slow and casual. In NonNonBa, it’s more rapid, guided by a mentor’s hand, and in We Can Fix It!, it comes about late in life, after reflecting. Lat has learned! Fink has learned! Shigeru, too. Read this one right to left! Organizing Material MY STORY FROM PLACE TO PLACE, FROM TIME TO TIME In my case, since it was kind of a travelogue, there was a governing structure of the places we went to. The story went from place to place, with new events and people and thoughts coming at every location. But in some cases, events that happened in a certain section didn’t fit in their right time. This one (right), which happened early in our experience, for instance, was the wrong mood for the tone of the rest of the chapter that documented that period, which was somber and desolate. So I put this scene on the back burner and used it as a flashback later. It gave me the springboard I needed to go into the ending of the book—through Rosalie’s name—but this wasn’t the plan. I was guided by tone and mood. When I realized how well it would work in that context, I kept it happily on reserve until it came time to draw it. ALLOWING JUMPS FORWARD IN TIME And though I included lots of flashbacks into the past, it wasn’t until the panel below that I realized I could casually refer to the future, and I did so a number of other times, in cases where I needed to detail something small that was screaming to be mentioned, but not necessarily dramatized. So this allowed me to follow these trains of thought, which moved from events to associations and back again, rather than adhering to chronology. Since the book is so full of uncertainty and questions, I honored these natural paths the brain takes as the best option for structuring the material, believing that it would hold together. But I also came armed with a knowledge of traditional Western story structure, some ideas about mythic journeys, etc. The fact that my life events followed a lot of these made it natural to emphasize some of that underlying structure and mythic elements: the rupture of the old world, the entry into the new world, the guardians of the thresholds, the dark caves, the mentors and visions, etc. Underneath it has a simple mythic structure, but on top it’s digressive and organic. The book shifts from real events to thoughts about those events, to similar events in movies, stories, books, and even images in my own imagination. STRUCTURE Structure can sometimes change mid-project.

• From Querelle (1953)

  13 I QUERELLE who were united by the almost visible thread of their glances, by the freshness of their smiles; and Gil seemed t o be singing for the boy, and Roger, like the sovereign at some intimate rite of debauch, to be favoring this young eighteen-year-old mason, so that with his voice he could be the hero of a roadside tavern for a night. The way the sailor was watching the two of them had the effect of isolating them. Once again, Querelle became aware of his mouth hanging half-open. His smile became more pronounced at the corner of his mouth, almost imperceptibly. A tinge of irony began to spread over his features, then over his entire body, giving him and his relaxed posture leaning back against the wall an air of amused sarcasm. Altered by the raising of an eyebrow, to match the crooked smile, his expression became somewhat malicious as he continued his scrutiny of the two young men. The smile vanished from Gil's lips, as if the entire ball of string had been unrolled, and at the same moment expired on Roger's face; but four seconds later, regaining his breath and taking up the song again, Gil, once more on top of the table, resumed his smile, which brought back and sustained, until the very last couplet of the song, the smile on Roger's lips. Not for a second did their eyes stray from the eyes of the other. Gil was singing. Quere11e shifted his shoulders against the wall of the bistro. He became aware of himself, felt himself pitting his own living mass, the powerful muscles of his l;>ack, against the black and indestructible matter of that wall. Those two shadowy substances struggled in silence. Quere11e knew the beauty of his back. We shall see how, a few days later, he was to secretly dedicate it to Lieutenant Seblon. Almost without mov ing, he let his shoulders ripple against the wa11, its stones. He was a strong man. One hand-the other remaining in the pocket of his peacoat-raised a half-smoked cigarette to his lips, still holding the half-smile. Robert and the two other sailors were oblivious to everything but the song. Querelle retained his smi le. To use an expression much favored by soldiers, Quere11e shone by his absence. After letting a little smoke drift in the

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “Don’t say it! don’t say it!” shouted Levin, clutching at the collar of his fur coat with both hands, and muffling him up in it. “She’s a nice girl” were such simple, humble words, so out of harmony with his feeling. Sergey Ivanovitch laughed outright a merry laugh, which was rare with him. “Well, anyway, I may say that I’m very glad of it.” “That you may do tomorrow, tomorrow and nothing more! Nothing, nothing, silence,” said Levin, and muffling him once more in his fur coat, he added: “I do like you so! Well, is it possible for me to be present at the meeting?” “Of course it is.” “What is your discussion about today?” asked Levin, never ceasing smiling. They arrived at the meeting. Levin heard the secretary hesitatingly read the minutes which he obviously did not himself understand; but Levin saw from this secretary’s face what a good, nice, kind-hearted person he was. This was evident from his confusion and embarrassment in reading the minutes. Then the discussion began. They were disputing about the misappropriation of certain sums and the laying of certain pipes, and Sergey Ivanovitch was very cutting to two members, and said something at great length with an air of triumph; and another member, scribbling something on a bit of paper, began timidly at first, but afterwards answered him very viciously and delightfully. And then Sviazhsky (he was there too) said something too, very handsomely and nobly. Levin listened to them, and saw clearly that these missing sums and these pipes were not anything real, and that they were not at all angry, but were all the nicest, kindest people, and everything was as happy and charming as possible among them. They did no harm to anyone, and were all enjoying it. What struck Levin was that he could see through them all today, and from little, almost imperceptible signs knew the soul of each, and saw distinctly that they were all good at heart. And Levin himself in particular they were all extremely fond of that day. That was evident from the way they spoke to him, from the friendly, affectionate way even those he did not know looked at him. “Well, did you like it?” Sergey Ivanovitch asked him. “Very much. I never supposed it was so interesting! Capital! Splendid!” Sviazhsky went up to Levin and invited him to come round to tea with him. Levin was utterly at a loss to comprehend or recall what it was he had disliked in Sviazhsky, what he had failed to find in him. He was a clever and wonderfully good-hearted man. “Most delighted,” he said, and asked after his wife and sister-in-law. And from a queer association of ideas, because in his imagination the idea of Sviazhsky’s sister-in-law was connected with marriage, it occurred to him that there was no one to whom he could more suitably speak of his happiness, and he was very glad to go and see them.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “Let us go to mamma!” she said, taking him by the hand. For a long while he could say nothing, not so much because he was afraid of desecrating the loftiness of his emotion by a word, as that every time he tried to say something, instead of words he felt that tears of happiness were welling up. He took her hand and kissed it. “Can it be true?” he said at last in a choked voice. “I can’t believe you love me, dear!” She smiled at that “dear,” and at the timidity with which he glanced at her. “Yes!” she said significantly, deliberately. “I am so happy!” Not letting go his hands, she went into the drawing-room. The princess, seeing them, breathed quickly, and immediately began to cry and then immediately began to laugh, and with a vigorous step Levin had not expected, ran up to him, and hugging his head, kissed him, wetting his cheeks with her tears. “So it is all settled! I am glad. Love her. I am glad.... Kitty!” “You’ve not been long settling things,” said the old prince, trying to seem unmoved; but Levin noticed that his eyes were wet when he turned to him. “I’ve long, always wished for this!” said the prince, taking Levin by the arm and drawing him towards himself. “Even when this little feather-head fancied....” “Papa!” shrieked Kitty, and shut his mouth with her hands. “Well, I won’t!” he said. “I’m very, very ... plea... Oh, what a fool I am....” He embraced Kitty, kissed her face, her hand, her face again, and made the sign of the cross over her. And there came over Levin a new feeling of love for this man, till then so little known to him, when he saw how slowly and tenderly Kitty kissed his muscular hand. Chapter 16 The princess sat in her armchair, silent and smiling; the prince sat down beside her. Kitty stood by her father’s chair, still holding his hand. All were silent. The princess was the first to put everything into words, and to translate all thoughts and feelings into practical questions. And all equally felt this strange and painful for the first minute. “When is it to be? We must have the benediction and announcement. And when’s the wedding to be? What do you think, Alexander?” “Here he is,” said the old prince, pointing to Levin—“he’s the principal person in the matter.” “When?” said Levin blushing. “Tomorrow. If you ask me, I should say, the benediction today and the wedding tomorrow.” “Come, _mon cher_, that’s nonsense!” “Well, in a week.” “He’s quite mad.” “No, why so?” “Well, upon my word!” said the mother, smiling, delighted at this haste. “How about the trousseau?”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “Run and see what’s wanted. Some lady,” said Kapitonitch, who, not yet dressed, in his overcoat and galoshes, had peeped out of the window and seen a lady in a veil standing close up to the door. His assistant, a lad Anna did not know, had no sooner opened the door to her than she came in, and pulling a three-rouble note out of her muff put it hurriedly into his hand. “Seryozha—Sergey Alexeitch,” she said, and was going on. Scrutinizing the note, the porter’s assistant stopped her at the second glass door. “Whom do you want?” he asked. She did not hear his words and made no answer. Noticing the embarrassment of the unknown lady, Kapitonitch went out to her, opened the second door for her, and asked her what she was pleased to want. “From Prince Skorodumov for Sergey Alexeitch,” she said. “His honor’s not up yet,” said the porter, looking at her attentively. Anna had not anticipated that the absolutely unchanged hall of the house where she had lived for nine years would so greatly affect her. Memories sweet and painful rose one after another in her heart, and for a moment she forgot what she was here for. “Would you kindly wait?” said Kapitonitch, taking off her fur cloak. As he took off the cloak, Kapitonitch glanced at her face, recognized her, and made her a low bow in silence. “Please walk in, your excellency,” he said to her. She tried to say something, but her voice refused to utter any sound; with a guilty and imploring glance at the old man she went with light, swift steps up the stairs. Bent double, and his galoshes catching in the steps, Kapitonitch ran after her, trying to overtake her. “The tutor’s there; maybe he’s not dressed. I’ll let him know.” Anna still mounted the familiar staircase, not understanding what the old man was saying. “This way, to the left, if you please. Excuse its not being tidy. His honor’s in the old parlor now,” the hall-porter said, panting. “Excuse me, wait a little, your excellency; I’ll just see,” he said, and overtaking her, he opened the high door and disappeared behind it. Anna stood still waiting. “He’s only just awake,” said the hall-porter, coming out. And at the very instant the porter said this, Anna caught the sound of a childish yawn. From the sound of this yawn alone she knew her son and seemed to see him living before her eyes. “Let me in; go away!” she said, and went in through the high doorway. On the right of the door stood a bed, and sitting up in the bed was the boy. His little body bent forward with his nightshirt unbuttoned, he was stretching and still yawning. The instant his lips came together they curved into a blissfully sleepy smile, and with that smile he slowly and deliciously rolled back again. “Seryozha!” she whispered, going noiselessly up to him.

• From The Art of the Graphic Memoir: Tell Your Story, Change Your Life (2018)

  CHAPTER 3 ORGANIZING MATERIAL When we’ve got material—preferably too much—we can begin to look at the best way to structure it. Let’s remember that we have one important job: Keep the reader engaged. Sometimes we do that by infectious drawing, sometimes we do that by the wild events that we’re telling, but more often than not, we do that by crafting a story. People love stories. Stories are currency; we trade stories all the time. Good stories, short stories, long stories, funny stories, profound stories. Stories move us in ways that little else can; they give us empathy, and supply us with continuity that our own brains need to contextualize our lives. So let’s take our material that we’ve been gathering and begin to organize it into a story. Again, let’s look at three examples. These three are all childhood stories. KAMPUNG BOY by Lat Kampung Boy (2006, First Second) by Malaysian cartoonist Lat is made entirely of short anecdotes. The drawing is wild, infectious, gregarious, and fun. The premise of the book can be summed up as “Lat grows up having fun in a poor village.” He says about Kampung Boy, “We had become city rats and I wanted to tell people about our origins.” Two small threads weave through Kampung Boy —his delight playing with a set of three brothers from school, and everyone’s fascination with the tin dredge outside the village. LOOSE COLLECTION OF EPISODES A look at the outline of his book (below) shows Lat moving chronologically from anecdote to anecdote, whether it’s at the fishing pond or in the study hall, until he is grown enough to move to a neighboring town as a young man. It’s loosely structured. From a life of 10 or 11 years, he chose only between 18 and 19 anecdotes to tell. What keeps us reading is not the dramatic arc he has created, but the drawings, which are energetic, and the storytelling, which is rich and full of life. KAMPUNG BOY OUTLINE 1. Birth and birth rituals in the village. 2. Playing as a toddler with sunbeams, and his first look at the tin dredge. 3. Making rubber at age 4. 4. Looking at the tin dredge, yelled at from Mom; Mom’s fury. 5. Description of funny Dad, contrasted with Mom. Dad’s knowledge. Driving with Dad. 6. Trips shopping with Dad. 7. Description of the town, social scenes, the train. 8. Beginning Koran studies at age 6. 9. Three friends from school, brothers, fishing. 10. Passing the dredge. 11. A wedding party of distant relatives. Dad dancing. 12. Age of 9. Class, a new brother, shopping on his own. 13. Discussion of his playing with the three brothers. 14. Life and school at 9. More fishing and passing time with the brothers. 15. Almost 10 years old, time for his circumcision. 16. Panning for tin outside the dredge. Scolded. 17. Dad takes him to his 2-acre plantation. 18. Passes school test.

• From Querelle (1953)

  1 44 I JEAN GENET love to Querelle tonight. Nor to anyone else, for that matter. All my affective powers Bow into this joy of return, make me feel crowded wi th happiness. Just awoke from a horrible dream. This much I can say about it: We were in a stable (ten or so unknown accomplices). Which one of us would have to kill him (I don't know whom)? One young man accepted the task. The victim did not deserve to die. We watched the murder being done. The voluntary executioner struck the greenish back of the unfortunate man several times with a pitchfork. Above the victim, a mirror suddenly appeared, just in time for us to see our faces go pale. They grew paler and paler as the victim's back grew bloodier. The executioner kept on striking, in despair. ( I am sure , now, that this is a faithful description of the dream, beca use it is not as if I were remember ing it: I am reconstructing it, with the help of words. ) The vic tim-innocent-despite his atrocious suffering, helped the mur derer. He showed him where to strike. He took part in the drama, despite the desolate expression of reproach in his eyes. I also note the beauty of the murderer, and the sense of his being wrapped in garments of malediction. The whole day has been as if stained wi th blood by this dream. Almost literally, the day had a bleeding wound. Querelle' s hand was thick and strong, and Mario, though without giving it much thought, had expected it to be effemi nate and somewhat fragile. His own hand had not been pre pared for such a paw. He scrutinized Querelle. A large fellow, exceptionally handsome despite a day' s growth of stubble, with the same face and athletic bearing as Robert; he looked manly, a little brutal, tough. (The curtness of his gestures underlined this appearance of strength and brutality.) "Nono ain't here?" "No, he went out." "So you're in charge of the joint?"

• From Querelle (1953)

  201 I QUERELLE th e details of his task with a simplicity th at is the true nobility, he could be seen on deck in the mornings, squatting on his haunches, polishing the Lieutenant's shoes. His neck bent, his hair falling over his eyes, he would sometimes look up, the brush in one hand, a shoe in the other: he was smiling. Then he would get up, in one quick motion, return all his utensils to th eir box with a juggler's speed and g o back to the cabin. He walked with quick, limber steps, a steady joy in his body. "Here you are, sir." "Very good. But don't forget to put my cl othes away." The officer was too timid to smile. Faced with his joy and this power, he did not dare to show his own happiness, for he was certain that one single moment of abandon would leave him completely at the mercy of the beautiful beast. He was afraid of Querelle. No matter how severe he was, he never succeeded in casting a blight over that body, that smile. Yet he knew his own strength. He was even a little taller than the crewman, but he was aware of a certain weakness lurking in the depths of his own body. It was something almost tangible, and it was sending waves of fear through all the muscles of his body. "Did you go ashore, yesterday?" "Y essir. It was starboard watch ashore." "You could have reminded me of that. I needed you. Next time let me know before you go." "Aye-aye, sir. " The Lieutenant watched him dusting the desk and folding away clothes. He was looking for a pretext for a ch illing remark that would forestall any burgeoning of intimacy. The evening before he had gone to the forward sleeping quarters, ostensibly looking for Querelle to send him on some errand. He was hoping to see him come in or go out in his blue bell-bottoms and peacoat. There were only five men in the quarters, and they rose to their feet as he entered. "My steward isn't here?'' "No, sir. He's ashore."

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  When the ceremony of plighting troth was over, the beadle spread before the lectern in the middle of the church a piece of pink silken stuff, the choir sang a complicated and elaborate psalm, in which the bass and tenor sang responses to one another, and the priest turning round pointed the bridal pair to the pink silk rug. Though both had often heard a great deal about the saying that the one who steps first on the rug will be the head of the house, neither Levin nor Kitty were capable of recollecting it, as they took the few steps towards it. They did not hear the loud remarks and disputes that followed, some maintaining he had stepped on first, and others that both had stepped on together. After the customary questions, whether they desired to enter upon matrimony, and whether they were pledged to anyone else, and their answers, which sounded strange to themselves, a new ceremony began. Kitty listened to the words of the prayer, trying to make out their meaning, but she could not. The feeling of triumph and radiant happiness flooded her soul more and more as the ceremony went on, and deprived her of all power of attention. They prayed: “Endow them with continence and fruitfulness, and vouchsafe that their hearts may rejoice looking upon their sons and daughters.” They alluded to God’s creation of a wife from Adam’s rib “and for this cause a man shall leave father and mother, and cleave unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh,” and that “this is a great mystery”; they prayed that God would make them fruitful and bless them, like Isaac and Rebecca, Joseph, Moses and Zipporah, and that they might look upon their children’s children. “That’s all splendid,” thought Kitty, catching the words, “all that’s just as it should be,” and a smile of happiness, unconsciously reflected in everyone who looked at her, beamed on her radiant face. “Put it on quite,” voices were heard urging when the priest had put on the wedding crowns and Shtcherbatsky, his hand shaking in its three-button glove, held the crown high above her head. “Put it on!” she whispered, smiling. Levin looked round at her, and was struck by the joyful radiance on her face, and unconsciously her feeling infected him. He too, like her felt glad and happy. They enjoyed hearing the epistle read, and the roll of the head deacon’s voice at the last verse, awaited with such impatience by the outside public. They enjoyed drinking out of the shallow cup of warm red wine and water, and they were still more pleased when the priest, flinging back his stole and taking both their hands in his, led them round the lectern to the accompaniment of bass voices chanting “Glory to God.”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  The crop of clover coming up in the stubble was magnificent. It had survived everything, and stood up vividly green through the broken stalks of last year’s wheat. The horse sank in up to the pasterns, and he drew each hoof with a sucking sound out of the half-thawed ground. Over the ploughland riding was utterly impossible; the horse could only keep a foothold where there was ice, and in the thawing furrows he sank deep in at each step. The ploughland was in splendid condition; in a couple of days it would be fit for harrowing and sowing. Everything was capital, everything was cheering. Levin rode back across the streams, hoping the water would have gone down. And he did in fact get across, and startled two ducks. “There must be snipe too,” he thought, and just as he reached the turning homewards he met the forest keeper, who confirmed his theory about the snipe. Levin went home at a trot, so as to have time to eat his dinner and get his gun ready for the evening. Chapter 14 As he rode up to the house in the happiest frame of mind, Levin heard the bell ring at the side of the principal entrance of the house. “Yes, that’s someone from the railway station,” he thought, “just the time to be here from the Moscow train ... Who could it be? What if it’s brother Nikolay? He did say: ‘Maybe I’ll go to the waters, or maybe I’ll come down to you.’” He felt dismayed and vexed for the first minute, that his brother Nikolay’s presence should come to disturb his happy mood of spring. But he felt ashamed of the feeling, and at once he opened, as it were, the arms of his soul, and with a softened feeling of joy and expectation, now he hoped with all his heart that it was his brother. He pricked up his horse, and riding out from behind the acacias he saw a hired three-horse sledge from the railway station, and a gentleman in a fur coat. It was not his brother. “Oh, if it were only some nice person one could talk to a little!” he thought. “Ah,” cried Levin joyfully, flinging up both his hands. “Here’s a delightful visitor! Ah, how glad I am to see you!” he shouted, recognizing Stepan Arkadyevitch. “I shall find out for certain whether she’s married, or when she’s going to be married,” he thought. And on that delicious spring day he felt that the thought of her did not hurt him at all. “Well, you didn’t expect me, eh?” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, getting out of the sledge, splashed with mud on the bridge of his nose, on his cheek, and on his eyebrows, but radiant with health and good spirits. “I’ve come to see you in the first place,” he said, embracing and kissing him, “to have some stand-shooting second, and to sell the forest at Ergushovo third.”

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  Children, however, are aware of other possibilities, as their art reveals. My own children, then three and six years old, reminded me of this one summer when they inadvertently demonstrated that, unless they change, they will be among Nabokov’s ideal readers. One afternoon my wife and I built them a puppet theater. After propping the theater on the top edge of the living room couch, I crouched down behind it and began manipulating the two hand puppets in the stage above me. The couch and the theater’s scenery provided good cover, enabling me to peer over the edge and watch the children immediately become engrossed in the show, and then virtually mesmerized by my improvised little story that ended with a patient father spanking an impossible child. But the puppeteer, carried away by his story’s violent climax, knocked over the entire theater, which clattered onto the floor, collapsing into a heap of cardboard, wood, and cloth—leaving me crouched, peeking out at the room, my head now visible over the couch’s rim, my puppeted hands, with their naked wrists, poised in mid-air. For several moments my children remained in their open-mouthed trance, still in the story, staring at the space where the theater had been, not seeing me at all. Then they did the kind of double take that a comedian might take a lifetime to perfect, and began to laugh uncontrollably, in a way I had never seen before—and not so much at my clumsiness, which was nothing new, but rather at those moments of total involvement in a nonexistent world, and at what its collapse implied to them about the authenticity of the larger world, and about their daily efforts to order it and their own fabricated illusions.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Vronsky was at the head of the race, just as he wanted to be and as Cord had advised, and now he felt sure of being the winner. His excitement, his delight, and his tenderness for Frou-Frou grew keener and keener. He longed to look round again, but he did not dare do this, and tried to be cool and not to urge on his mare so to keep the same reserve of force in her as he felt that Gladiator still kept. There remained only one obstacle, the most difficult; if he could cross it ahead of the others he would come in first. He was flying towards the Irish barricade, Frou-Frou and he both together saw the barricade in the distance, and both the man and the mare had a moment’s hesitation. He saw the uncertainty in the mare’s ears and lifted the whip, but at the same time felt that his fears were groundless; the mare knew what was wanted. She quickened her pace and rose smoothly, just as he had fancied she would, and as she left the ground gave herself up to the force of her rush, which carried her far beyond the ditch; and with the same rhythm, without effort, with the same leg forward, Frou-Frou fell back into her pace again. “Bravo, Vronsky!” he heard shouts from a knot of men—he knew they were his friends in the regiment—who were standing at the obstacle. He could not fail to recognize Yashvin’s voice though he did not see him.

• From Holy Land: A Suburban Memoir (1996)

  Los Angeles at the rate of 300 to 400 feet a year. A line of observation wells tracks its progress under the plain. The fresh water flowing west toward the Newport-Inglewood fault is pumped to the surface and delivered to the faucets of 1.2 million households, including those in my city. The salt water is on the other side of the fault. Intrusion of the saline plume past the fault line would be a disaster for forty- three cities. It would make drought on the Los Angeles plain permanent. 271 Mayfair Pool was open all summer when I was growing up. No one in my neighborhood could afford a big backyard swimming pool. There were so many school-age children that a single two-block area might have more than 150. On hot afternoons, you would walk to the pool with your trunks on under your jeans and carry a towel. You would wait in the heat in a long line of other children, change in the crowded locker room, and quickly step onto the pool deck. The shallow end of the pool would be so full of younger children that you could not swim. Many of the children would be pressed along the edge of the pool, holding on to the coping of the concrete deck. The crowd would gradually shift some children into the less-crowded, deep end of the pool. If you could swim, or were brave, you got away from the pool edge and struck out across the deep water. 272 The city of Los Angeles has just enough water for its needs. Most of this water is piped from the Owens Valley. Long Beach has just enough water delivered from state and federal water projects, and from its own wells. My city, and forty-two others, have just enough water drawn from the aquifers beneath their neighborhoods. We have just enough because cities and land owners with water rights finally

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  When Anna came in in her hat and cape, and her lovely hand rapidly swinging her parasol, and stood beside him, it was with a feeling of relief that Vronsky broke away from the plaintive eyes of Golenishtchev which fastened persistently upon him, and with a fresh rush of love looked at his charming companion, full of life and happiness. Golenishtchev recovered himself with an effort, and at first was dejected and gloomy, but Anna, disposed to feel friendly with everyone as she was at that time, soon revived his spirits by her direct and lively manner. After trying various subjects of conversation, she got him upon painting, of which he talked very well, and she listened to him attentively. They walked to the house they had taken, and looked over it. “I am very glad of one thing,” said Anna to Golenishtchev when they were on their way back, “Alexey will have a capital _atelier_. You must certainly take that room,” she said to Vronsky in Russian, using the affectionately familiar form as though she saw that Golenishtchev would become intimate with them in their isolation, and that there was no need of reserve before him. “Do you paint?” said Golenishtchev, turning round quickly to Vronsky. “Yes, I used to study long ago, and now I have begun to do a little,” said Vronsky, reddening. “He has great talent,” said Anna with a delighted smile. “I’m no judge, of course. But good judges have said the same.” Chapter 8 Anna, in that first period of her emancipation and rapid return to health, felt herself unpardonably happy and full of the joy of life. The thought of her husband’s unhappiness did not poison her happiness. On one side that memory was too awful to be thought of. On the other side her husband’s unhappiness had given her too much happiness to be regretted. The memory of all that had happened after her illness: her reconciliation with her husband, its breakdown, the news of Vronsky’s wound, his visit, the preparations for divorce, the departure from her husband’s house, the parting from her son—all that seemed to her like a delirious dream, from which she had waked up alone with Vronsky abroad. The thought of the harm caused to her husband aroused in her a feeling like repulsion, and akin to what a drowning man might feel who has shaken off another man clinging to him. That man did drown. It was an evil action, of course, but it was the sole means of escape, and better not to brood over these fearful facts.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Levin untied his horse and rode home to his coffee. Sergey Ivanovitch was only just getting up. When he had drunk his coffee, Levin rode back again to the mowing before Sergey Ivanovitch had had time to dress and come down to the dining-room. Chapter 5 After lunch Levin was not in the same place in the string of mowers as before, but stood between the old man who had accosted him jocosely, and now invited him to be his neighbor, and a young peasant, who had only been married in the autumn, and who was mowing this summer for the first time. The old man, holding himself erect, moved in front, with his feet turned out, taking long, regular strides, and with a precise and regular action which seemed to cost him no more effort than swinging one’s arms in walking, as though it were in play, he laid down the high, even row of grass. It was as though it were not he but the sharp scythe of itself swishing through the juicy grass. Behind Levin came the lad Mishka. His pretty, boyish face, with a twist of fresh grass bound round his hair, was all working with effort; but whenever anyone looked at him he smiled. He would clearly have died sooner than own it was hard work for him. Levin kept between them. In the very heat of the day the mowing did not seem such hard work to him. The perspiration with which he was drenched cooled him, while the sun, that burned his back, his head, and his arms, bare to the elbow, gave a vigor and dogged energy to his labor; and more and more often now came those moments of unconsciousness, when it was possible not to think what one was doing. The scythe cut of itself. These were happy moments. Still more delightful were the moments when they reached the stream where the rows ended, and the old man rubbed his scythe with the wet, thick grass, rinsed its blade in the fresh water of the stream, ladled out a little in a tin dipper, and offered Levin a drink. “What do you say to my home-brew, eh? Good, eh?” said he, winking. And truly Levin had never drunk any liquor so good as this warm water with green bits floating in it, and a taste of rust from the tin dipper. And immediately after this came the delicious, slow saunter, with his hand on the scythe, during which he could wipe away the streaming sweat, take deep breaths of air, and look about at the long string of mowers and at what was happening around in the forest and the country.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “Allow me to make your acquaintance,” she said, with her dignified smile. “My daughter has lost her heart to you,” she said. “Possibly you do not know me. I am....” “That feeling is more than reciprocal, princess,” Varenka answered hurriedly. “What a good deed you did yesterday to our poor compatriot!” said the princess. Varenka flushed a little. “I don’t remember. I don’t think I did anything,” she said. “Why, you saved that Levin from disagreeable consequences.” “Yes, _sa compagne_ called me, and I tried to pacify him, he’s very ill, and was dissatisfied with the doctor. I’m used to looking after such invalids.” “Yes, I’ve heard you live at Mentone with your aunt—I think—Madame Stahl: I used to know her _belle-sœur_.” “No, she’s not my aunt. I call her mamma, but I am not related to her; I was brought up by her,” answered Varenka, flushing a little again. This was so simply said, and so sweet was the truthful and candid expression of her face, that the princess saw why Kitty had taken such a fancy to Varenka. “Well, and what’s this Levin going to do?” asked the princess. “He’s going away,” answered Varenka. At that instant Kitty came up from the spring beaming with delight that her mother had become acquainted with her unknown friend. “Well, see, Kitty, your intense desire to make friends with Mademoiselle....” “Varenka,” Varenka put in smiling, “that’s what everyone calls me.” Kitty blushed with pleasure, and slowly, without speaking, pressed her new friend’s hand, which did not respond to her pressure, but lay motionless in her hand. The hand did not respond to her pressure, but the face of Mademoiselle Varenka glowed with a soft, glad, though rather mournful smile, that showed large but handsome teeth. “I have long wished for this too,” she said. “But you are so busy.” “Oh, no, I’m not at all busy,” answered Varenka, but at that moment she had to leave her new friends because two little Russian girls, children of an invalid, ran up to her. “Varenka, mamma’s calling!” they cried. And Varenka went after them. Chapter 32 The particulars which the princess had learned in regard to Varenka’s past and her relations with Madame Stahl were as follows:

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Steps were heard at the door, and Princess Betsy, knowing it was Madame Karenina, glanced at Vronsky. He was looking towards the door, and his face wore a strange new expression. Joyfully, intently, and at the same time timidly, he gazed at the approaching figure, and slowly he rose to his feet. Anna walked into the drawing-room. Holding herself extremely erect, as always, looking straight before her, and moving with her swift, resolute, and light step, that distinguished her from all other society women, she crossed the short space to her hostess, shook hands with her, smiled, and with the same smile looked around at Vronsky. Vronsky bowed low and pushed a chair up for her. She acknowledged this only by a slight nod, flushed a little, and frowned. But immediately, while rapidly greeting her acquaintances, and shaking the hands proffered to her, she addressed Princess Betsy: “I have been at Countess Lidia’s, and meant to have come here earlier, but I stayed on. Sir John was there. He’s very interesting.” “Oh, that’s this missionary?” “Yes; he told us about the life in India, most interesting things.” The conversation, interrupted by her coming in, flickered up again like the light of a lamp being blown out. “Sir John! Yes, Sir John; I’ve seen him. He speaks well. The Vlassieva girl’s quite in love with him.” “And is it true the younger Vlassieva girl’s to marry Topov?” “Yes, they say it’s quite a settled thing.” “I wonder at the parents! They say it’s a marriage for love.” “For love? What antediluvian notions you have! Can one talk of love in these days?” said the ambassador’s wife. “What’s to be done? It’s a foolish old fashion that’s kept up still,” said Vronsky. “So much the worse for those who keep up the fashion. The only happy marriages I know are marriages of prudence.” “Yes, but then how often the happiness of these prudent marriages flies away like dust just because that passion turns up that they have refused to recognize,” said Vronsky. “But by marriages of prudence we mean those in which both parties have sown their wild oats already. That’s like scarlatina—one has to go through it and get it over.” “Then they ought to find out how to vaccinate for love, like smallpox.” “I was in love in my young days with a deacon,” said the Princess Myakaya. “I don’t know that it did me any good.” “No; I imagine, joking apart, that to know love, one must make mistakes and then correct them,” said Princess Betsy. “Even after marriage?” said the ambassador’s wife playfully. “‘It’s never too late to mend.’” The attaché repeated the English proverb. “Just so,” Betsy agreed; “one must make mistakes and correct them. What do you think about it?” she turned to Anna, who, with a faintly perceptible resolute smile on her lips, was listening in silence to the conversation.

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  Larry Peebles had grown up in Los Angeles, where his own late father, also a doctor, had been my father’s best friend. He was writing because he had just vacationed in Latin America, bought a few gemstones, and had a Proustian memory of my father that set him to reminiscing on paper. He kindly wrote to give me an unknown part of my father’s life. I think I was Leo’s youngest pal. He was in his sixties when he died, and I was fifteen. My father, William Peebles, was his chief pal. I never saw my dad happier than when he was around Leo. I knew I was a lesser pal, but being a pal of Leo’s was the best. He treated everyone equally, he was not pretentious nor condescending. He was kind. And best of all, he was fun. He had lots of stories. My father gave the appearance of being sophisticated, but he was still a farm boy from Grande Prairie, Alberta. He ran away from home and an abusive father when he was fourteen and spent his formative years on the road. I think he and Leo, who was a salesman of sorts, liked being out in the world. They shared the awareness that’s only developed by being outside in a strange environment, anytime, day or night. I guess you’d call it street sense. When Dad came into money, he spent it. Leo helped him. He and Leo were constantly scheming to make money. Their mantra was “Never work for anyone else.” It was a game, and life was the playing field. While my dad was practicing medicine, they would plot between patients and after work. Saturdays I would ostensibly go to work. I would put pills in pillboxes and label them or develop X-rays. Sometimes I got to assist during minor surgeries. When Leo was there, I pretty much hung out with him in a small anteroom to my father’s office, with a private entrance. Leo was larger than life. He was a big man, over three hundred pounds. We would always start out the same way: I would call him “Mr. Steinem,” and he would look a little pained and say, “Call me Leo.” Not “Uncle Leo” or anything like that, just Leo. It was how I knew we were pals. When he told me to sit down, he always patted the couch next to him, looking furtively around the room. What was going to happen next was not for just anyone to see. He would start searching around in his suitcoat pockets, eventually coming out with gems. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires. Big ones, little ones. They were not in boxes, no wrappings of any kind. No settings, just loose in his pockets. He loved them. I loved them. We would carefully examine them. We would talk about them.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  He kept taking the Drome cigarette apart and munching bits of it. “I am willing to try,” he said. “You are either Australian, or a German refugee. Must you talk to me? This is a Gentile’s house, you know. Maybe, you’d better run along. And do stop demonstrating that gun. I’ve an old Stern-Luger in the music room.” I pointed Chum at his slippered foot and crushed the trigger. It clicked. He looked at his foot, at the pistol, again at his foot. I made another awful effort, and, with a ridiculously feeble and juvenile sound, it went off. The bullet entered the thick pink rug, and I had the paralyzing impression that it had merely trickled in and might come out again. “See what I mean?” said Quilty. “You should be a little more careful. Give me that thing for Christ’s sake.” He reached for it. I pushed him back into the chair. The rich joy was waning. It was high time I destroyed him, but he must understand why he was being destroyed. His condition infected me, the weapon felt limp and clumsy in my hand. “Concentrate,” I said, “on the thought of Dolly Haze whom you kidnaped— ” “I did not!” he cried. “You’re all wet. I saved her from a beastly pervert. Show me your badge instead of shooting at my foot, you ape, you. Where is that badge? I’m not responsible for the rapes of others. Absurd! That joy ride, I grant you, was a silly stunt but you got her back, didn’t you? Come, let’s have a drink.” I asked him whether he wanted to be executed sitting or standing. “Ah, let me think,” he said. “It is not an easy question. Incidentally—I made a mistake. Which I sincerely regret. You see, I had no fun with your Dolly. I am practically impotent, to tell the melancholy truth. And I gave her a splendid vacation. She met some remarkable people. Do you happen to know—” And with a tremendous lurch he fell all over me, sending the pistol hurtling under a chest of drawers. Fortunately he was more impetuous than vigorous, and I had little difficulty in shoving him back into his chair. He puffed a little and folded his arms on his chest. “Now you’ve done it,” he said. “Vous voilà dans de beaux draps, mon vieux .” His French was improving. I looked around. Perhaps, if—Perhaps I could—On my hands and knees? Risk it? “Alors, que fait-on?” he asked watching me closely. I stooped. He did not move. I stooped lower. “My dear sir,” he said, “stop trifling with life and death. I am a playwright. I have written tragedies, comedies, fantasies. I have made private movies out of Justine and other eighteenth-century sexcapades. I’m the author of fifty-two successful scenarios. I know all the ropes. Let me handle this. There should be a poker somewhere, why don’t I fetch it, and then we’ll fish out your property.”

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  And had my brother seen it in good time, he would already flee the greedy poverty of Catalonia, lest it should work him ill; and of a truth provision needs be made by him or by tnother, lest on his bark already laden heavier load be laid. His nature,—mean descendant from a generous forebears,—were in need of soldiery who should not give their care to storing in the chest.” “Sire, in that I believe the lofty joy which thy discourse poureth into me, there where every good hath end and hath beginning is seen by thee even as I see it, ’tis more grateful to me; and this too I hold dear, that thou discernest it looking on God. 7 Thou hast rejoiced me, now enlighten me; for in speaking thou hast moved me to question how from sweet seed may come forth bitter.”